


Walking Hand In Hand

by cailures



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:04:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cailures/pseuds/cailures
Summary: The descendants of Bëor the Old manage an inheritance. Finrod is a little bit extra.





	Walking Hand In Hand

**Author's Note:**

> FOR #9, who asked for FINROD'S LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE HOUSE OF BEOR, ESPECIALLY BEOR, BARAHIR AND EMELDIR, ANDRETH, OR BEREN, and also FINROD FAILING TO IMPRESS HALETH.

“Henceforth I shall be named Bëor, your servant. For the love I bear you in my heart, where you go, I shall go; where you dwell, so shall I dwell.”

The Elf-lord beamed. He was radiant. He glowed. Some distance away, Baran's wife put up her hand against the glare. A moment later, she felt a tug on her skirts. Young Boron gazed up at her, small brow furrowed.

“Is Grandfather getting married? Like uncle Belen?”

She bent and lifted him, turning his head into her shoulder to protect his eyes. “No, dearest,” she said, squinting at their joined hands as the Elf-lord and her father in-law exchanged the kiss of fealty.

“Not... exactly.”

*

Emeldir lay back on her husband's shoulder, gazing at the roof-timbers. Then she realised what she must look like and screwed her eyes shut, burying her face against his neck. “No,” she said. “I still. _What on earth_.”

He stroked her hair gently. “I know,” he said. “It's a lot, the first time.”

“I cannot believe you didn't tell me. Prepare a woman next time.” She let out a slightly hysterical giggle.

“I am sorry, my love,” he said, kissing her brow. He could have sounded sorrier, she thought.

“With the-- and the _gleaming_. Stars above,” she groaned. “Are they all like that?”

Barahir laughed softly. “I think so. I don't know for sure, of course.”

“I may not be able to cope with this,” she informed him. “Every one of them we meet, from now on, I will look at them and it will be all I am able to think: _You sleep with your eyes open_.”

*

Maedhros held a rather thick ream of parchment at arm's length, regarding it with a certain air of wariness.

“Oh!' said Caranthir, who hadn't bothered to knock. “Those tariff proposals from Nogrod came back already?”

Maedhros shook his head. “It's cousin Findaráto's latest... diplomatic report.” On the other side of the room, Maglor attempted to share a commiserating look. Caranthir, on the other hand, somehow seemed even more interested than he had been in the tariffs.

“Give me that!” he said, snatching at it across the table. He flipped through it eagerly. “He had better have a current lexicon. Did you know they've changed their language _again_? Apparently they don't even do it on purpose, they simply _let it happen_, it's chaos. And he was supposed to look into the 'fiction' question, frankly I don't understand it, he must be making it up; of course, he _would_.”

Caranthir's brothers shared a look as he threw himself into a chair and began to read. Sometimes he frowned, or grumbled under his breath, or scribbled angrily in the margins.

Once, exactly, he smiled. Wistful was not an expression that sat easily on his face.

In truth, they were both grateful. If Caranthir wanted to take over the job of reviewing their cousin's irregular but enthusiastic observations of humanity, they were more than happy to let him. A line would have to be drawn, of course, at allowing him to write the response.

*

“And then he stood up and walked out. Just like that! Said he was going to war.”

“Not even a goodbye?”

“He didn't even pack his things.” Andreth ran her hands through her hair. “Spare me from _Elves running away from their feelings_.”

Adanel patted her shoulder. “My husband had his moments with him too, you know, in his day.”

“Sometimes I truly wonder what great-great grandfather Bëor was thinking.”

“My point is, dear, we all know how it is. We are all in this together.”

“For better or for worse,” said Andreth darkly.

*

**On the Traditions of Men**

_The languages of the folk of Bëor and the folk of Hador appear to be closely akin, for they share many words in common, and may with some effort understand one another. It would seem probable that both tongues are descended from one which by distance and the passage of time must have diverged, albeit at a swifter rate than that to which we are accustomed. _

_In contrast, the speech of the Folk of Haleth seems wholly alien. They remain a people apart, adhering to their own tongue amongst themselves, while those few who maintain dealings outside their own borders may adopt the speech of the Sindar or the other Mannish tongues. I confess I have had little success gaining direct knowledge of their own language, for they are a reticent people and the chieftainess of Brethil has been most forthright in her insistence that their affairs and history are their own._

_I may, however, provide a more substantial account of the unique features of the Bëorian tongue, for I have been fortunate to have engaged in much profitable discourse with the loremasters of that House. In this essay, I shall_

*

Emeldir was determined not to allow the experience to be repeated.

“Come here, darling, I want to tell you something before Lord Felagund arrives.”

“Yes, mother?”

“There is something you ought to know about him. Not only him, of course, but on account of the great love between Felagund and the House of Bëor, mostly him.” She paused; the problem was that even now, so many years later, she still found it difficult to keep a straight face on the topic. “In the first place, you know, the bodies of Elves are very like to ours--”

Beren was giving her a very strange look.

“Mother, are you trying to tell me that you-- that--” he glanced around a bit desperately, as if the right words might be lurking in the corners of the room. “--what happens when an Elven king and a human family love each other very much?”

Emeldir burst out laughing. “No! No, dear heart, it isn't that. Although,” she grinned at him. Her son was grown, but still susceptible to some adolescent mortification. “I suppose it is a matter of what to expect, should you get into bed with him.”

“_Mother!_”

“I simply wish for you to be prepared.”

As it happened, Felagund's promised visit was called off, owing to a very sudden battle of flame, and everything rather went to pieces after that. Many years later, however, Beren had cause to remember his mother's warning, and be thankful for it.

It truly was unsettling.

*

When Bëor the Old passed from the circles of Arda, aged fourscore and thirteen, Nóm traveled back to the land of his kinsmen and stood beside Baran his son through all of the rites, looking lost.

Afterwards, Baran reached up and grasped him by the shoulder. He thought about how to comfort one to whom death was, if not a stranger, then an uninvited guest. “I know how dear my father was to you,” he began, “and you to him. This is the way of things, for Men.” He started again. “Some among us say that as long as those remain who love and remember him, a man is never truly gone. Others that a part of us lives on, in our descendants.” He fell silent, not certain he was helping.

Nóm nodded slowly, looking around at the gathered people of Bëor. Then he grasped both of Baran's hands. “Then as Bëor lives on in those who come after him, so shall my love for him.” He faced Baran as he had faced his father long ago, looking intent. “The vows of loyalty I made to him, I make to all his house. As I am bound to him, so henceforth I shall be bound to you, now and for the life of the world.”

Baran squeezed the Elf-lord's hands. He wasn't entirely sure what to say to that.

*

_Beyond the End of the World the Elves do not change, for in memory is their great talent. Completed but not ended they abide in the present forever, and there walk with the Children of Men, their deliverers, singing to them songs of the days when they first met, and their hands touched in the dark._

“Finrod. Brother. You know I love you.”

“But.”

“Did you _marry a dynasty_ and not tell anyone about it?”

“Not... exactly?”

*

**Author's Note:**

> Paragraphs in italics were cribbed from _On Dwarves and Men_ and the _Athrabeth_.


End file.
